


For The Sake Of Having You Near

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome in the Reach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willas isn’t surprised that Margaery is already aware of the…circumstances of his marriage at present. It fills the servants’ gossip downstairs and he’s sure Grannie’s made her share of pointed insinuations over tea. Willas doesn’t care. Jon makes Sansa happy, and Willas is nothing if not a fool for Sansa’s happiness.  Post-WWI AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Sake Of Having You Near

“What a modern you’ve become, brother!” Margaery teases, looking him over appraisingly.

Willas laughs. Nothing could be further from the truth. Still, he is so very fond of his sister for saying it. 

Better to have Margaery romanticize him as some hedonistic freethinker than see him as he truly is; a man who is too weak-willed and too much in love with his wife to protest being made a cuckold under his own roof. 

It is Margaery who is the true modern, with her parties, and her drinking, and cohort of beautiful, fashionable friends in town.  _Bright young things._ That’s what the newspapers call them. Willas can’t think of a more apt name for his lively, clever, little sister. 

But even with all her wild antics, there is something melancholy that lingers behind Margaery’s eyes. He suspects the loss of Loras is something that they will carry with them always. 

The war has left none unscarred. 

Willas thanks God for Sansa. When he first returned, she was a balm to all his hurts. His sweet wife proved a far better nurse than any of those frowning matrons at the field hospital with their starched pinafores and endless scolding. Her smile, her voice more soothing than the morphine. 

Of course, Sansa has known her share of suffering too. The war left her with her childhood home destroyed and her entire family dead. _All save Jon_. 

Perhaps that is why it is so easy for Willas to turn a blind eye to what goes on between her and her cousin. How can he possibly begrudge her seeking comfort from the last piece of home she has left?

Willas isn’t surprised that Margaery is already aware of the…circumstances of his marriage at present. It fills the servants’ gossip downstairs and he’s sure Grannie’s made her share of pointed insinuations over tea. Willas doesn’t care. Jon makes Sansa happy, and Willas is nothing if not a fool for Sansa’s happiness.

Still, Willas is no saint. He resents Jon plenty (and not just for being handsome, and whole, and in love with his wife). He resents Jon for being _useful_. Father can bluster and call Jon an “upjumped clerk” all he likes, but in this new age, Jon is worth more than any of them. The time of the idle country gentleman is but a twinkling of the past. The future now belongs to the Jon Snow’s of the world.

“More ruin than modern, I think, Margy,” he says at last, giving her a wry smile, before returning to their game of chess. 

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Willas shares what Margaery had said with Sansa, sending his wife into a peal of giggles.

“It is not _that_  funny,” he grouses, pretending to be put out, but secretly savoring every note of her laugh. She smiles easier these days, and he knows Jon’s presence plays no small part in that.

Jon is not far (he never is) smiling to himself, and placing a steadying hand on Sansa’s back when her laughter sets her teetering slightly on the stairs. Willas gives him a small nod of thanks.

They’re all a little worse for drink. Willas blames those damned cocktails Margaery had insisted everyone drink before dinner, but in his present state, he can’t muster the effort to be too peeved with his sister. Especially not with Sansa chattering and grinning happily, as she weaves between him and Jon. 

“Shall I ring for your maid?” he asks once they’ve reached the door to her room.

“No!” Sansa cries, a touch louder than she intended. Willas and Jon exchange amused looks. “No, I’m not in the least bit tired!” 

She practically dances her way over to Willas, laughing as she goes. 

“I will, however, need assistance undressing, husband.”

She is on her tiptoes, murmuring low enough for only Willas to hear. He shivers at the feel of her lips brushing against his ear.

“Whatever you want, dearest,” he says indulgently, nearly undone by the heated way she is looking at him. 

He follows her into the room, only swaying slightly when he crosses the threshold. 

He is about to thank Jon for his assistance but Sansa is already bounding back to where Jon is leaning heavily against the corridor wall. Jon is not completely blotto, but he is certainly more relaxed than Willas has ever seen him. That ends the moment Sansa reaches for his wrist, tugging him towards the door of her room. Jon’s spine goes rigid, his eyes blown wide in shock.

Sansa realizes her error instantly. She wrenches her hand away like she’s been burned, but it’s too late now. The damage is done. Willas stares on, stunned and feeling considerably sobered.

Time stops for a moment as they each freeze in this uncomfortable tableau.

That his beloved wife frequently beds her cousin is the worst kept secret in Highgarden. Still, it is not something any of them has openly addressed or acknowledged before. 

Sansa looks at him, and Willas’s insides turn leaden at the fear in her eyes. 

Sansa is frightened of so many things, and while Willas has tried to make her feel safe here at Highgarden, he knows she is still plagued by dreams. Of London. Of Joffrey. Of Cersei.

Willas never wants her to fear him. Maybe that is why he says what he does (that, or maybe it’s just the gin talking).

“Whatever you want,” he says again, gently. He offers her his hand, and it pains him how tentatively she takes it. He presses a feather light kiss to her fingers before looking to where her cousin still stands frozen in the doorway. “Jon?”

Jon hesitates, his face unreadable, before nodding and shuffling inside.

While Jon locks the door, Willas turns back to his wife. The emotion in her eyes sets him off-balance even more than the drink. There is fear still, but something else too, something hungry that sets his blood alight.

Before he can say anything, Sansa’s arms are around his neck and she is kissing him, softly at first, but when his free hand settles at her hip and tugs her closer, she begins kissing him in earnest. 

“I thought you needed assistance?” he prompts, with a teasing smile, when they break apart, panting and flushed.

Sansa smiles shyly and nods before turning her back to him.

Willas sets his cane against a nearby chair. He begins to dutifully unfasten the clasps of her dress, taking time to admire each inch of Sansa’s back as it is revealed through the parted silk. He is so taken with his task, he nearly misses what happens next.

Sansa has seized hold of the front of Jon’s dinner jacket, and pulls him forward for a kiss. Jon hesitates at first, but Willas can see the very second he begins to respond, almost sighing against Sansa’s lips as he gives in. 

Willas swallows thickly, reaching for the support of his cane. 

When he started this madness, he had not thought about what it would feel like to see another man kiss his wife. He knows Jon has done far more than kiss Sansa (it is a fact he has tried not dwell on) but knowing and seeing are very different things. 

Objectively, they are very lovely. Both pale and slender and perfect. It is almost like watching a dance, how graceful and practiced they move with one another, heads tilted just so. 

Willas should feel jealous (any decent man would) and yet, the only thing Willas feels is oddly stirred. 

Sansa stretches her arm behind her as she continues to kiss Jon, fumbling for a moment until she grasps hold the hand Willas is not using to grip his cane. Willas smiles as she twines their fingers together and pulls, urging him to wrap an arm around her middle.

He obeys and leans forward to press a kiss to her neck, just below her newly shorn hair. He misses her curls. Misses running his fingers through them and seeing them fanned out against the stark white linens on their bed. Still, there are charms to this new fashion (namely easy access to the elegant length if her neck).

Her dress now gapes open in the back from the unfastened clasps. He snakes a hand inside, running his fingers over the bumps on her spine and over her ribs before reaching around to cup a breast. He tweaks a nipple between his thumb and finger, and she pulls away from Jon’s mouth with a cry.

“Willas!”

Sansa writhes against him. Her bottom grazes over the front of Willas’s trousers, making his breath catch. It eases the ache some but it is not enough. Not nearly enough. 

“Willas! Willas, please!” She turns her head straining to kiss him. He meets her kiss eagerly, pressing his hips to her backside.

His bad leg is locking up from standing so long. In the morning it will be terribly swollen and he’ll have to make use of that damned wheelchair he hates. He doesn’t care. It will be worth it so long as Sansa keeps moving against him like this. 

Her lips tear from his suddenly, her body jerking in his hold.

“Jon!”

It feels queer to have her gasp another man’s name against his lips, but Willas is astonished when he realizes he doesn’t mind it as much as he probably should. Still panting from their kiss, he casts a curious glance over Sansa’s shoulder.

Jon is knelt on the ground now, one hand griping high on Sansa’s thigh. The other hand is busy tugging her undergarments and stockings down her slender legs. She hurries to kick them the rest of the way off before leaning back on Willas, her legs spread obscenely.

For one jarring instance, dark grey eyes lock on Willas before Jon ducks under her skirts.

“Oh! Oh yes! Jon!”

Sansa squirms against Willas, her breath coming warm and fast against his cheek. 

His heart hammers a ragged tattoo against his ribs as he takes it all in. The weight of his wife sagged against his front. His hand moving teasingly over her breast. Her cousin’s dark head of curls bobbing between her thighs.

_Perhaps Margaery is right_ , he thinks. He moves his hand to grab Sansa’s chin and silences her whimpers with a heated kiss. _I’m more of a modern than I’d thought_.


End file.
